Our Liberals

Our Liberals

Our liberals sleep too easily
on beds of nails,
cross the quicksand
that is every sidewalk
on ballerina toes,
run their interminable races
with a devil at their heels
and against a clock
with no hands.
They are the stuff
of alabaster and slate,
tombstones and chalkboards
are their favored mediums.

How precious sleep is
to the arsonist, the dreams
of conflagrations yet to come!
"And have you seen Nureyev perform?
Why, one could hardly guess..."
The idle chatter of the drowned
becomes tomorrow's headlines
and laurels rest unsteadily
on the heads of those
who have no compass;
they, at least, have found a path
of least resistance
in the jungle.

Edgar Cayce's message from beyond
is writ large on the banners
of our liberals, a seance serves
for their party conventions.
Our liberals sleep
soundly on their beds of nails.
Hush! Do not disturb them
lest a nightmare
wake our liberals.